


The Demon Who Hunted Demons

by Serpentsign



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Bless Bobby's gruff but kind soul, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, no apocalypse business, the enemy of my enemy is my friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:59:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpentsign/pseuds/Serpentsign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby and the Winchesters run into a demon named Crowley on a hunt. Crowley is hurt, alone and he's running out of time - on the run from demons he has no choice but to hunt or be hunted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He's a Demon

 The house they follow the demons to is dark and big. They can hear the demons walking around upstairs, opening and closing doors and muttering amongst themselves. Sam and Dean look around in the kitchen, keeping an eye on the doors and windows while listening to the demons upstairs. Bobby has just unloaded the salt from the backpack when Dean speaks.

 “Uh, Sammy, Bobby? Look at this.” They both look at Dean sharply, following the line of his torchlight towards the cabinet he just opened. There’s a canister and an explosive. Sam frowns, opens another cabinet only to find an identical contraption in there. He crouches and looks under the tattered table cloth on the table and Bobby only has time to catch a glimpse of metal before Sam stands upright. He disappears into the next room for a few moments, and then comes back into the kitchen.

 “There are at least two more in there. The whole house is a booby-trap. And get this: a booby trap for demons. There are nails, rock salt and silver bullets in the canisters. These demons are going to be fried and peppered any minute now. We should go.”

 “I second that motion.” Dean nods.

 When they get to the hallway, there are suddenly sounds of frantic motion from the second floor. Shouts and panicked voices through the floorboards.

 “Looks like they found the explosives.” Sam mutters and kicks the front door open.

They run across the yard and only barely manage to take cover behind an old car before the night sky is illuminated by fire and the silence broken by the roar of a series of explosions. Somewhere within the inferno of the house the demons are screaming.

A shadow emerges from the flames and the smoke, running across the yard only to stand at the edge of the light from the house. Short and stout, in what looks like a dark suit and short dark hair, the man clasps his right arm with his left. Another explosion highlights the figure, revealing that the right sleeve of suit jacket is badly burnt from the elbow and down and the skin on the back of his hand twisted and red.

“Nothing quite like an open fire under a clear night sky, is it, boys?” The man turns to look at them, smiling to reveal two perfect rows of white teeth. He’s quite a sight, a grinning soot-flecked face, dressed in a dark, still smoking suit. Illuminated by the orange light from the house he looks infernal, the devil himself in the fire and the chaos.

Demon, Bobby realises.

“Who are you?” Dean asks bluntly, and from the guarded looks he and Sam are giving the man they’ve seen that he’s not quite right.

“Name’s Crowley, former King of the Crossroads, now number one of Hell’s most wanted.” He looks appraisingly at them, trying to gauge their unimpressed stares.

“Judging by the locks you must be the Winchesters, and you,” he says and points at Bobby with his uninjured hand, “you are Bobby Singer.” His almost appreciative tone makes Bobby squirm and causes the brothers to look at Bobby through the corner of their eyes. Crowley eyes Bobby and continues, smirking: “You ran that bastard Leiman through a wood-chipper. Brilliant. I like your style.”

“Enough of this,” Dean grumbles and aims a gun at Crowley’s face. Behind him Sam reaches for his own gun and steps up beside him. The demon takes a step back, hands in the air.

“Listen, you hunt demons, they want me dead and I blow them up; we should all be friends. Enemy of your enemy is your friend right?” Dean doesn’t move, neither does Sam and all Bobby can hear is the mantra: “Never trust a demon. Never trust a demon.” play over and over again. Crowley must’ve read the scepticism in their faces because he says with emphasis:

“Oh, please, you can trust me for as long as Hell doesn’t want me. And, I can tell you, they don’t want me back. Ever. Not even if I sell you out. They just want me dead.” Crowley begins to peel his burnt jacket off as if the matter is settled, revealing a black waistcoat underneath and that his shirt sleeves are folded meticulously up to his elbows. He looks at the jacket in his hands, picking at the burnt sleeve forlornly and sighing.

“I really liked this suit.”

“Well, you can always get a new jacket,” Dean shrugs, lowering his gun after nodding towards Bobby and Sam.

“And where am I supposed to find an identical jacket to this one? They ate my tailor, you know.” Dean glares at him and mutters something under his breath but Crowley, apparently, has a very keen hearing and says: ”Buy one? Are you mad? I’d rather go without.” He throws his jacket in a nearby bush and gives his burnt arm a once over, grimacing lightly.

“We- well, I, should go. Someone would’ve noticed a pack of demons going up in smoke by now. Gentlemen.” He waves his left, uninjured hand in a sort of goodbye and vanishes.

“I hate to say it, “Bobby says,”but he’s right, we need to get our asses outta here,”

 

 

Bobby is hunting alone the next time he runs into Crowley. Or rather, the next time when Crowley literally runs into him and tackles him to the ground without as much as a “how do you do?”. Bobby is standing in the doorway to an empty cornershop in a ghost town. What a demon would be doing in an empty town, he has no idea, but there he is anyway, trying to detect any sign of movement when Crowley comes seemingly out of nowhere and tackles him inside the shop. They land in a tangle of arms and legs with Bobby’s gun digging into the small of his back.

“What-?” The rest of the question is drowned by an explosion going off across the street. All Bobby can see from laying on the floor, half-covered by demon is a pillar of smoke rise towards the pale blue sky. Crowley rolls off him and onto his back, chuckling and grinning like a fool.

“Hello, Bobby.” He says, looking at the hunter.

“Glad to see you haven’t lost your touch.” Bobby retorts, grumbling as he gets up and dusts himself off. Crowley doesn’t answer, he’s still on the floor inspecting his right arm. It’s just as bad as Bobby remembers from last time, burnt skin, beginning to twist and flake at some places. But that’s impossible, that was several weeks ago and this looks new. Crowley catches him staring and drops his arm to his side quickly.

“I have to be in the house to lure them inside, and I have to set the explosives off myself. It’s a hassle, but it’s slightly less painful than being strung down at some table in Hades-knows-where.” His face looks drawn for a moment, eyes far away and mouth in a tight line. Bobby knows this face, he sees it every day reflected back at him. It’s a shitty job, but someone’s gotta do it. He offers Crowley a hand and Crowley, with slight hesitation, accepts it and reaches out with his left hand.

They part outside town. Crowley gets into a black, nondescript car and disappears after an almost-friendly goodbye and good luck.

 

 

Bobby has just poured himself a glass of rotgut when the sound of a car engine causes him to stop in his tracks and move towards the window, expecting to see a black Impala. The car that parks in front of his house is black, but it’s certainly not Deans; it’s sleek and eerily nondescript. And it’s Crowley who gets out. Eerie is the word, Bobby decides but can’t help but feel sympathetic when he sees Crowley nursing a newly injured right arm.

He opens the door even before Crowley can knock and leads them into the den. Before Bobby can ask anything, Crowley shrugs and sits down in an offered seat.

“I was in the area.” It’s not much of an explanation because Bobby and he aren’t friends or even strictly speaking acquaintances. They fall silent and Crowley’s fingers trails along the red skin on his right hand, making him hiss slightly as they graze a particularly tender area covered in scabs.

“Need some bandages for that?” Bobby asks. It’s only right after all and the surprised glance he gets from Crowley makes it sort of worth it. Before the demon gets a chance to catch his bearings and say something smart, Bobby trudges out of the room to get the first-aid kit in the kitchen.

“Why don’t you fix yourself? With your mojo, I mean.” he asks when he sits back down and hands Crowley some alcohol and bandages.

“Can’t afford it. I need to save the batteries for when the big guys finally come. Those arses cut me off from hell, I can’t draw any demonic powers, or what have you, from there like I please. I have to rely on the souls I’ve bought and wait for the contracts to run out. The contract for a soul is between me and the seller only, so I get all the juice in the box, no halvsies.” Crowley winces again as he rubs cleans the wounds with the alcohol.

Bobby considers this for a moment. They don’t know much about demons, really, even though they’ve fought and killed them for a very long time. And along comes Crowley, prattling information like it doesn’t even matter. And Crowley kills demons. Dean can mutter all the wants, Bobby still thinks this demon’s got some fine points.

“You could go to a hospital.” He says at last.

“And run into a handsome doctor with black eyes? No thank you.”

“Paranoid bastard.” Bobby mutters, not entirely disapproving.

“Says the one with a demon trap outside his bedroom door.” Crowley smirks, holding his hand out to Bobby again, who can only grunt in a “yeah, yeah” fashion, hoping that Crowley’s only a really good at guessing and hand the demon some more bandages. He watches as Crowley finishes up winding the bandages around his hand and as he’s trying to tie the ends together, brows knitted and his tongue sticking out from between his lips. It’d be endearing if it wasn’t a demon. Or possibly because it’s a demon.

“Oh, give it here.” He finally snaps when Crowley drops one of the ends for the third time. Crowley looks at him surprised but holds his hand out anyway.

“Do this often, do we?” He asks when Bobby efficiently pulls the bandages tighter and begins to fasten the ends.

“The boys spends more time in bandages than I care to think about. There we go.” He says and pats the back of the demon’s hand with his left out of habit. He catches himself only to end up holding Crowley’s hand between his own. Balls.

Crowley’s hand is warm and dry, with only the beginnings of callouses on his fingers. It twitches slightly and even though Bobby refuses to meet the demon’s eyes he can feel those dark eyes stare. The contact only lasts for a few seconds before they seemingly both decide to get up from their seats at the same time and stare in opposite directions.

“Well,” Crowley starts and coughs delicately, “I should get going.” He looks at Bobby for a moment and then walks swiftly out the door. Bobby listens as a car door slams shut, the engine starts rumbling and then growing fainter and fainter.

“Balls.” He says at last and finished off the glass of rotgut he completely forgot about when Crowley came.

 


	2. He's One of Us

During the weeks after the accidental-hand-holding-incident, that Bobby refuses to think about but is replaying itself in his head far too often anyway, he starts to notice articles about explosions and fires in the news. At first the fires are a several days apart in different states, but they soon become more frequent and sometimes even occur in the same town twice. The media coverage is sparse on detail because there’s not much left for the policeto go on. But it’s frequently suggested to be the work of an arsonist, or even arsonists. Bobby snorts at this, yeah no kidding. It’s Crowley, he’s sure of it and judging by the change of pace, he’s running out of power to zap himself long distances.

He gets a call from a fellow hunter three days after the third fire one state over. He was asking if Bobby knows anything about the fires and if he thinks it’s a fire spirit or a possession. Bobby delicately tries to avert him as good as he can with vague answers and tries to sound doubtful. Crowley doesn’t need hunters on his tail as well as demons.

He finds himself wondering if the demon has claimed a soul from a contract yet and if he hasn’t, his arm would be a bloody stump at the rate he’s going. He also wonders what exactly Crowley did to be persecuted so fanatically by Hell’s armies, making a mental note to ask the demon next time they meet.

Then suddenly the reports of fires stop. And Bobby finds so many more things to wonder about; is Crowley dead? Is he alive but in hell being tortured? Is he hiding somewhere, waiting for a contract to run out? Two weeks of nothing in the news about fires and Bobby decides to take a look at the rumours of an active vampire nest, conveniently close to the last reported place of a violent fire.

The rumours turn out to be nothing and Bobby drives through the town where the last fire occurred. He passes the black ruins of an office building and continues to drive in the direction Crowley seemed to be travelling in.

 

 

He stops at a motel, only a few hours away from the last spot. It’s like most motels he’s ever been in: old, worn and only just covering the necessities. Hopefully, Crowley has realised that running is a bad idea when injured and low on mojo, and decided to stop and hide as best as he can.

“have you seen a man, short and British? Injured hand?” He asks the clerk, a middle-aged man with a runny nose that he keeps wiping with the back of his hand. When he hesitates to answer Bobby tries again, “Listen, he’s a friend, okay? He would’ve seemed stuck up and probably annoyed, but he’s just like that.”

“Yeah, yeah” the man says, shrugging, “he’s in 38,paid for two weeks in advance and asked not to be disturbed. I haven’t seen him since. It’s been a week, sir.” Bobby gives the man thanks and a tip before ambling outside to find the room.

The blinds are down and there’s no light coming from under the door. Bobby knocks. There’s nothing. He knocks again.

“Hey, stupid. It’s me, Bobby, open up.” For another few seconds he hears nothing, then a soft padding of feet and the click of the door lock opening.

Crowley looks like hell., to be honest. His waistcoat is hanging off a chair, he’s not wearing any shoes and when he sinks down to sit on the bed the little light seeping through the blinds reveals a worn, tired face with a collection of scratches along his neck and jaw. Bobby can’t see Crowley’s right arm but he seems to be favouring his left as he props himself up on the bed.

“This is your idea of a good hideout?” Crowley only shrugs.

“Demons are stupid. I went underground, quite literally, for a week. “ He says and nods towards a pair of shoes by the door. The previously shiny, black leather shoes are covered in dried mud. Crowley grimaces at the sight. “They can’t sense me when I haven’t got any powers, so they lost me when I went off the trail.”

“So … you ran out of juice, eh?” Bobby asks carefully and leans against the wall. Crowley lets out and dramatic sigh and allows himself to fall back onto the bed.

“Yeah, and isn’t that lovely. You could stab me in the front, I probably wouldn’t be able to stop you. I might even thank you for ending my misery.” Bobby scoffs, trust a demon to be so over dramatic about something like this.

“Welcome to Club Human, stupid.” Crowley glares at him from the bed, but it only serves to make him look even more ridiculous, spread out on the bed; arms outstretched and legs hanging off the edge. “How’s the arm?”

“Bad.”

“How long until you get another soul then?”

“Another three weeks.” Crowley doesn’t even bother with his usual smarmy attitude now, his tone clipped, his breaths shallow and his eyes half-closed.

“You’re pathetic,” Bobby says, not sweetening his words at all,” I’ve got some medical supplies at home, if you can walk outside without dropping to the ground we’ll go back to my place and fix you up, ok?”

“My, my, Bobby Singer. Taking in stray demons? What is the world coming to.” The demon musters out and narrows his eyes, probably considering the offer with all of its possibilities of back-stabbing. He’s a paranoid thing, but then again, you had to be to survive this day and age. “Okay.” He says at last, “Anything’s better than this.” He casts a disgusted look around the room as he gets up from the bed.

Crowley sleeps soundly all the way back to Bobby’s.

 

 

Crowley, Bobby finds, doesn’t take well to being powerless and stranded in a junkyard. When he isn’t sleeping he openly scoffs at anything Bobby eats, drinks or wears. But when Bobby calls him out on it, which he almost always does, the demon actually has the decency and self-awareness to look apologetic. He can’t do any better than this right now, and doesn’t he well know it.

This of course, makes the demon sour, to say the least. Bobby expects the grumpy demon to become violent, but Crowley seems to have more control than that, for now anyway. His behaviour, however, is erratic at best. Sometimes the only sign of him being in the house is the sounds of steps from the guest room. Other times he spends his days hovering just outside Bobby’s personal bubble, talking away until Bobby snaps and tells him to shut up. It doesn’t make him go away, but he keeps the snarky remarks to a minimum. Sometimes Bobby catches Crowley looking at him with those dark eyes that seems to assess him, looking beneath his skin and into his soul. It makes Bobby shudder, because he can swear the demon looks hungry.

“Hey, Crowley?” Bobby asks one day when the rain is pouring down outside and he finds the demon perched in an armchair, glaring out the window as if the weather is somehow insulting him, “what did you do to get on Hell’s shitlist anyway?”

“It’s a funny story, really,” but Crowley’s tone indicates that it’s really not,” I just happened to viciously slaughter the wrong demon, that’s all. There was a power shift, and suddenly there I am with the new boss’ lover’s blood all over my suit. They thought I was trying to go for the crown, so they tried to make me an example. There’s just no talking to demons. Why would I want the crown? I loathe the damn place and I’m so much better at middle-management up here.” Crowley takes a deep breath and flexes his right hand a bit. It’s healing nicely, if slowly, and as soon as Crowley gets his grubby hands on a soul it’ll be as new again.

“Sounds rough.”

“Hell is hell. Even for demons.”

“No wonder you’re a ball of sunshine.” Bobby dead-pans and retreats to the kitchen, leaving the demon to glare at his back.

During the last week Crowley is almost amiable, not complaining about the food or Bobby’s choice of curtains even once. He still refuses to drink anything Bobby offers him that is stronger than water, claiming it to be for health reasons and grinning at him.

But as Crowley’s disposition gets brighter, his body grows weaker. Bobby more than once finds him leaning heavily against a wall or grabbing the back of a chair so hard that his knuckles whiten as he catches his breath. It all culminates when one day Crowley’s hovering by Bobby in his usual manner, seeming to take pleasure in talking even though Bobby only half-listens and nods every now and again. It takes him a moment to realise that the demon’s gone suddenly quiet and when he turns his head to look at him, Crowley is pale and swaying on the spot. He takes a step towards Bobby, eyes wide and panicked because he has absolutely no idea what’s going on. Bobby, however, can spot the tell-tale signs of someone who’s about to faint quite well after many years of hunting. He meets the demon half-way, throwing his arms around the demon’s waist as the demon sags against him, his head lolling against Bobby’s shoulder.

“Balls.”

He manoeuvres them carefully towards the couch, breathing heavily as he drops him on the cushions. The bastard is heavier than he looks. He’s also wearing his shirt buttoned up to the top and a tie, making Bobby sigh and roll his eyes. Just like a crossroads demon to strangle themselves to preserve appearances. He loosens the tie and opens the two buttons at the top, brushing his knuckles against Crowley’s neck and finding the skin colder than he remembers it. If he’s learned one thing from hunting it’s that demons are warm and their skin dry as if they’re carrying a bit of hell with them always.

Muttering he throws a blanket over Crowley and tries to get back to work.

Two days later Crowley’s still sleeping when bobby sticks his head into the living room in the morning to check on him.

The next morning Crowley’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for him. He’s yet again buttoned the shirt, straightened the tie and is now for the first time in weeks, wearing his waistcoat.

“I need your car.” He says without as much as a good morning. “I’ll give it right back,” he assures when he catches Bobby’s look.”Demon’s honour.” A few more seconds of staring at each other and Bobby gives in and throws him the keys.

“Just take the damn thing. To be honest with you, I’m surprised you didn’t just take it while I slept.”

Crowley blinks. Oh, he hadn’t even thought of that, had he? He sniffs and straightens, then turns around and walks out the door.

 

 

Bobby keeps an eye outside the window during the day, wondering how long a collection takes and when, or rather if, he’s getting his car back. When the sun is low in the sky and Bobby’s almost given up on the demon ever returning, he’s there leaning against the car and smirking. Bobby vaguely wonders if it takes much power to transport a car as well as himself since Crowley doesn’t seem to have any qualms about doing so. He looks good, Bobby has to admit, probably much like he did before the whole hell business. When he enters the kitchen Bobby can tell that Crowley has replaced the whole suit, not just the lost jacket and he’s carrying a bottle of, what looks like, very expensive whiskey. Power, it seems, agrees with him.

Crowley offers the bottle to Bobby and points towards two whiskey tumblers Bobby’s never seen before in his life standing on the kitchen table.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have.” Bobby says, mockingly and Crowley takes a bow, dramatic and equally mocking.

“I’m in your debt, good sir. Now, let’s drink!” He pours whiskey in both glasses and hands Bobby one, raising his hand in a toast.” To ornery old drunks and to hell being a shitty place.” Bobby snorts.

“I can drink to that.”

Crowley is staring at him above the rim of his glass, dark eyes burning into his exposed neck and travelling down his body. Bobby isn’t sure if it’s a smoulder, he’s never had one aimed in his direction before, but it does make him want to hide to stop the gaze from mentally undressing him. Crowley is suddenly very close, grabbing Bobby’s hand with his right and removing the glass with his other, running clever fingers along his hand and wrist as he does so. Bobby doesn’t notice he’s been backed up against the wall until he feels his back press against the flat surface, too distracted by Crowley running his hands up his arms and towards his neck and head. Crowley reaches up and knocks Bobby’s cap off, letting it fall to the floor without as much as a look.

“It’s uncanny, Robert,” the demon mutters against his neck, his teeth touching the skin as he talks,” how someone who has seen so much evil, faced true horrors, supernatural or other, still finds it in his heart to take in a renegade demon.” His hand wanders along Bobby’s frame, creating invisible patterns as he goes.”It makes your soul quite unique.” a small nip at his Adam’s apple “Not to say, desirable.”

“Good to hear you’re not doing this for me, then.” Bobby grumbles, not really protesting against the touch, but certainly a bit more worried about the demon stealing his soul.

“Don’t get me wrong, dear. Souls are an acquired taste, some demons like their souls clean and untainted. I, however, want mine with a bit of salt. Call it a quirk, if you will.” He pulls away and stares at Bobby who must look worried.

“I’m not going to take your soul, Bobby Singer. I’m just going to have a little taste.” With that he leans in and claims Bobby’s lips. And, God, Bobby can tell Crowley does this for a living. The kiss is forceful and deep, intimate as if though they’ve done this a thousand times before, as if Crowley already knows how to press against Bobby just the right way. It’s impossible for Bobby not to melt into the kiss, to grab the demon by his neck and press closer still.

It’s all a bit backwards, Bobby knows this. It goes against every rule he’s ever made. You don’t trust demons, you don’t let them into your house and you never, ever let them kiss you. But pressed flush against this one demon, finding that the demon’s heart beats in time with his own, those rules can all sod off.


End file.
